


The Forgotten Tales

by deathwailart



Category: Assassin's Creed, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Pieces of Eden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:37:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Altaïr is an assassin and scholar who comes across an apple of great power and must seek advice from the elves and where Connor was not always Connor but was asked by a powerful ancient woman to travel far and help to protect those who cannot do so themselves.</p>
<p>Written for a prompt asking for a crossover between Lord of the Rings and Assassin's Creed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sorngil

Among men he is learned and though his name is Altaïr it is recorded as Sorngil, named so for Soronúmë, the name of the star he was born under and the meaning of his name in his own tongue. A scholar and protector of his people, taking life only when there was no other way and though he dearly loved his homeland and his homeland and her people him, he knew in his heart there was no choice but to sail to the lands where the elves remained. He carries the artefact about him, a golden sphere that shows so many things it frightened him when he prized it from the hand of his master who wielded it as a tyrant, knowing there is only one he could consult. It is a long road but not hard to follow even if he swears the weight concealed in a pouch at his hip seems to drag him back as if the road home would be the easiest of journeys. He has always had keen eyes and they serve him well upon this journey, looking and seeing the alliances of those upon the roads and in towns and villages, able to see if they are to be trusted or not.  
  
The last homely house lives up to its name.  
  
"Welcome to Imladris," an elf greets, touching a hand to head and heart and Altaïr repeats the gesture.  
  
"Safety and peace to you my friend."  
  
"Come, we shall see to your horse, the lord Elrond awaits."  
  
Altaïr knows of elves though he has met few – they are well recorded though at times he wonders why they are recorded among the very wise given the histories some have managed to tell. Nothing is true, he remembers, for their truths are the truths they wish to tell, same as dwarves and Men. Everything is permitted, he remembers too and touches the pouch with a trembling hand. "I am honoured," he says at last and allows the elf to lead him to rooms where he might change and wash after such a long, hard journey, a plate of fruits and bread, cheese and meat alongside pitchers of water and wine waiting for him. He thanks the elf again because the bath is a luxury he has missed along the road and at the sight of food and drink his stomach growls.  
  
Clad in borrowed robes provided to him, lighter than his usual attire, spun of fine soft fabrics, hair still damp and belly full he leaves to explore where he will because he trusts that he will be found when it is time to meet this lord and because this is a place spoken of so fondly in all books and letters collected by his order. He gazes out at the mountains and forests, at the waterfall crashing into the great river, unable to stop himself from running his hands over the wooden banisters and railings. He visits the room with the statue of a king of old and the shards of an ancient blade. It is not his shame but he feels it. Men have done so few rights and so many wrongs to this world and to each other.  
  
When he leaves, he is faced with lord Elrond. It is easy to see that he was once offered the choice of what to be, this one they call Half-Elven. There is a heaviness to his features that the other elves do not have and given that almost all here number among the Noldor it cannot be explained that way. He seems older too though those who must rule and protect and guide so often do. No one can remember what Al Mualim looked like, always old in the stories, always with one eye blinded in battle, always with his white hair and beard. He shakes the memory away and greets the lord Elrond, thanking him for the hospitality of his home, for being allowed to come here. The lord smiles, deflecting the praise back to his people and gestures for Altaïr to walk with him.  
  
"I had heard your name before, Sorngil," he begins, leading him up a tall, winding staircase.  
  
"I am honoured." And truly, he is.  
  
"In few places now are the race of Men willing to stand for what they must and not for their own petty interests."  
  
"There is much darkness in the world and the innocent must be protected and given the right to choose their own path instead of being forced to follow blindly." It earns him an assessing look but he is used to the scrutiny from his training and stands tall, staring straight ahead, no hostility or challenge in his gaze. The look given to him in return is one where he knows he has not been found wanting. "The orcs and goblins, their behaviour troubles me. It is for this reason I have come."  
  
"We protect our borders as best we can but they are scattered, they form alliances amongst themselves."  
  
"You have not heard of the whispers of a gathering storm?"  
  
"I have." It is said that some elves are blessed – or cursed, or perhaps it is both but Altaïr is no elf and cannot think as they do – with foresight for Elrond's gaze is suddenly very far away but history records him well and he is one who has fought the darkness and stepped into the blackest and most foul of lands. "But I saw what happened that day, I was there. They will not return as some fear."  
  
"They have engaged in...in what I can only call strange behaviours."  
  
Elrond turns sharply and his eyes are drawn to Altaïr's hip, on the pouch his hand rests on. Immediately he is grabbed and hauled into a study, very old and remote, filled with volumes that perhaps were known from when the elves first learned to write.  
  
"You brought danger with you?" Elrond demands once the door is shut behind them and Altaïr has not often felt anything approaching small or vulnerable but he knows much of elves and knows he would not stand a chance were his host to deem him a threat to be dealt with.  
  
"There was no other choice! It is elven, you are the one I thought who would understand and know of such a thing – your kin are the Noldor are they not?"  
  
The elf lord heaves a sigh and beckons Altaïr to join him at the table where he rubs his brow. "Show me."  
  
It looks almost innocent, a strange but well-made bauble to those who know no better. A gold ball the size of an apple, as golden as Laurelin the gold and that is where the trouble lies.  
  
"This was made by no elf," Elrond murmurs at last, carefully not touching what lies between them on the table. "Sorngil, how came you by this?"  
  
"My order is one that looks back – you know we take the lives of those who wish to enslave all minds, Men of all lands who wish a return to when the Father of Understanding," a shudder is shared by both man and elf at the name Altaïr would not dare to utter here, "who would enslave all. They say it would be peace. They would use these to accomplish it for I have seen what this might do. Great knowledge but able to bend so many to the will of the wielder. I have felt its touch."  
  
"There are many names for such a thing," Elrond says at great length. "In one tongue it is recorded as orva."  
  
"Apple?"  
  
"Orva o handë."  
  
Altaïr can feel his stomach sink – of course it is of understanding, of course that is why the enemy wishes to find it. "What must be done? Can it not be used? There is much it could teach us."  
  
"Once Fëanor wrought the Silmarils and so much strife came of it. Once rings were forged and strife came of it. Destroy it – cast it into fire or the sea as Maedhros and Maglor did."  
  
"There are none who can use it?" He is thinking of a third Silmaril as he speaks, the one that is a star, the one Elrond will know of well.  
  
"It is too uncertain, this peace we have fought so hard for cannot be risked by some coming across it. Sorngil," he leans across the table, grave in only the way the very old and ageless can be. "Be rid of it. Do not be as Isildur."  
  
The words ring in Altaïr's ears for the rest of his stay as he discusses other matters and partakes of the great library and many songs. Yet when he means to cast it aside, he cannot. There is so much they might learn it would be a great shame to cast it aside before it reveals its secrets after all.


	2. Ranger

His mother named him Ratonhnhaké:ton and he knew that name for years until the dreams came and urged him to cross the seas and travel to the lands of the men who had wronged his ancestors, crushing their religion and ways beneath the almighty heel of Númenor. He does not approve of alliances with the foul creatures of dark lords but what other choice has there been? He does not want to leave but is told he must, to help his people and so he departs with Orocarni dwarves upon one of their great ships sailing with precious salt and other cargo where he eventually reaches Laketown. Laketown is a port town (if it can be called that) with all manner of people and the locals learn his name quick enough by the time he departs, paying the extortionate fees the master wants to charge, a cruel and greedy man.  
  
He cannot help them though some part of him wants to. The voice in his dreams of the woman with stars in her eyes urges him to venture through Mirkwood and to keep to the path. It is hard to follow, the air chokes him, nightmares of his mother burning in an orc raid haunt him, beasts of all manner attack him and the elves look upon him curiously. He tells them of the voice, of seeking one they call Aiwendil or Radagast and they lead him on though he knows they are unsure if they can trust him. He is of the race of Men with a strange name and they must know from looking at him that he comes from lands across the sea, lands of dark alliances. They speak in their own tongue and he misses home so badly it hurts, following them silently save when his curiosity must be sated by asking about plants and some of the forest creatures. They oblige him he thinks out of a sense of not wishing to offend; when he spoke of the lady with stars in her eyes when they asked why he trespassed, knives and bows on him, they lowered their weapons and apologised before saying they would see him to his destination safely.  
  
"He said you'd be coming!"  
  
He is a small man, smaller than Oiá:ner with ragged clothes and a strange hat, the smell of damp and earth and mildew clinging to him. He looks like a hermit in his dirty things and when he lifts his cap there are birds nesting in his hair and worse. This is who he is to meet? This madman with a sled pulled by rabbits? The elves have gone, melted back into their forests with an ease he could never hope to mimic and he is left alone.  
  
"Well come on, don't want those spiders to be late and I'm sure you'd like a good meal, wouldn't you? Elves can march a long time with only that waybread – I'm Radagast, did she tell you my name? She doesn't always."  
  
"Who is she?"  
  
"You don't know?" He shakes his head but hops up on the sled behind this wizard, trying not to grind his teeth at how he has clearly come all this way for nothing. "She is the lady Galadriel, the lady of Lórien, very wise and very fair. She sent word to you and sent word to me through Gandalf. Right! On we go!" The rabbits stamp their feet and then they're off and the sled moves with a speed he had not reckoned on.  
  
"Why me?"  
  
"Well you never know sometimes, I think it's best not to, I try not to be involved in such affairs, not like Gandalf but not shut away like Saruman – I prefer the birds and beasts."  
  
It seems noble – a love of the land had been instilled so early, giving thanks to it for sustaining them and each kill he makes he offers a thanks. When they reach the wizard's home he realises how true that is and marvels at how it looks as if it sprang from the forest itself and all manner of animals and birds come forth to greet them, sniffing at Connor curiously and he knows he's being watched by the wizard when he sits and lets them come to him. A fawn licks his palm and he murmurs a hello. The wizard makes a sound like a barely stifled delighted cry.  
  
Days are spent in that house and around it, learning of all that plagues the lands – that the woods he ventured through were not always known as Mirkwood, that shadows are rising, that Gandalf is worried and that the safe places are in grave danger. He knows that if war comes that his people will suffer. That all from the lands he comes from will suffer, used in the ways they were before and worse. So he agrees to help where he can, to go to the lands of the Shire and the surrounding areas, fighting savage monsters and wild beasts where he must. There are more unkind eyes here. The Men have little trust of him, ushering their children along and away, wanting his money for lodgings upfront and even the Rangers he was sent to meet are suspicious at first until their leader calls for them to stop.  
  
"He has ventured here with the same purpose as us – to protect those who are in need from the darkness. I would call him brother, what say you?"  
  
And from that night he is though they give him a new name – their tongues trip over his and he understands the necessity of having to pass as something he is not though it never works. Eyes stare, people ask of his parentage (always Men, the elves they meet and the dwarves too are happy to talk, the dwarves especially to ask after distant kin they only hear of) but calling himself Connor does something. At last they come to the Shire and he meets hobbits for the first time, suspicious but in a polite way – they're wary of all strangers, especially Big Folk and Connor is as tall as these men descended of Gondor and broader. He feels a peace here he hasn't felt since he left the home of Radagast and when the Tooks invite him to dinner (later he learns from others about all the prominent families of the Shire and how the Tooks are seen as the odd ones) and ask of his home, about distant lands they've only read of he finds himself happy to oblige as they feed him the largest dinner he has ever seen.  
  
When he breaks a chair he is mortified but they wave him off, laughing and the little ones seize their chance to pounce and sit about his knee, asking for more stories about elves and travel and what sort of stories he grew up with and oh wouldn't it be so grand to go on an adventure.  
  
It's not home, home is the place his mother died and where his people live an uneasy life making what alliances he can but he is helping by guarding the north and gentle folk who do not wield weapons of their own. He tells them the truths of his people, the hardships they face, that the stories told here are not true and the other Rangers agree with shame in their voices. He will return one day whether he follows the will of elves or wizards or defies it remains to be seen. At night he sleeps beneath the stars more often than not, the rustling of the wilds about him and speaks to his mother through them, telling her of all he does, all he hopes to do and when sleep comes more easily than it did at home where he fought orcs and slavers and shifty-eyed men whispering of alliances to be made that sounded too good to be true then he counts it as her offering her support and blessing and that even though he is more than half a world away, that he is doing something to help his home.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't take credit for Sorngil - that came from a friend on plurk but sorn comes from eagle with gil meaning bright/spark. It's also very close to Soronúmë, a constellation traced by Varda meaning 'eagle of the west'. The elvish I used (badly) for naming the apple is Quenya.


End file.
